Water
by Pallan Minerva
Summary: Disgusting.


Fuminori Sakisaka had forgotten many things by now. He had forgotten the taste of his mother's kitsune udon, which she had made on special occasions. He had forgotten the look his father had given him when he won his first soccer game as a primary schooler. He had forgotten what his friends looked like. He had forgotten what a regular world looked like, instead of the gruesome hellscape that he faced every time he looked out of his building.

He missed all of it. Every day that he was forced to deal with his reality was another imprinting of it over his old memories. He had forgotten the texture of a book. He had forgotten the smell of bleach. He had forgotten... so much. Perhaps he was supposed to feel something more at that fact. A terror that he was slowly forgetting what being human was supposed to be like. Mourning at his loss of a normal life.

But he did not feel much anymore, either.

All he had left was Saya.

As he stumbled inside his home after another trying day, watching beasts of flesh and ooze blurble at one another in mockeries of conversation, he was greeted with the bright smile of the lone companion in his life.

"Welcome home." She said softly, hugging him around his waist. He returned the gesture by wrapping his arms around her head and pulling her close. Just the feeling of someone else's skin... at least he couldn't forget that. He was thankful every day to be blessed by her company.

"I'm home." He replied. "Thank you for being here."

"Of course, silly." She giggled and looked up at him. He patted her head in response and let her go. She skipped into the kitchen, probably working on dinner.

He followed her and looked around, taking in the painted-over features of the room. Instead of the usual mess that was reminiscent of the backroom of a butcher's shop, every surface was painted in a garish vomit-green. Somehow he found that more tolerable than his normal surroundings, though.

He opened a cabinet and pulled out what was likely a glass cup. He couldn't really tell, as to him it seemed to be covered in boils and seeping pus out of multiple pores. But the shape matched up with what he barely remembered to be the glass cups that his mother had bought at a small market. Somehow, the folds on the face of the man who sold it to them appeared in his head. He had been old and wrinkled, and yet so kind.

His hand was made more filthy as he held the glass, taking it over to his sink. He turned on the cold water tap and placed the cup underneath the faucet.

Sewage. That had to be what was coming out of the faucet. It smelled like it. It was black and green and dark red and small entrails, like a rat's, occasionally appeared in the thick liquid that was being flushed out of the tap. He turned it off as the cup was filled, and brought it to his lips.

Nausea instantly arrived, throwing itself into the pit of his stomach as if to try to run as far away as possible from whatever it was that he was putting in his body. But, sadly, as he was alive, he needed the sustenance of what was likely water. So he tilted the cup and let the liquid flood into his mouth.

It was disgusting. It was disgusting. It was disgusting. It was disgusting. The nausea overflowed, and he wanted to puke the concoction back up. But he knew that he needed it, that his senses were lying to him as they always did, and he stuffed the sensation into the deep pit in his mind where he kept the rest of the feelings like those.

He pinched his nose and kept going. He ignored the way that some entrails seemed to stick to the back of his throat, not quite triggering his gag reflex but making themselves uncomfortably known, like phlegm that just wouldn't be coughed up. It was awful.

A hand rested on his arm. He finished the cup, gasped, and slammed it onto the counter. It made a squelching noise as it impacted with the paint-covered hideousness. He took in deep breaths of paint-thinner filled air, and turned to see Saya gazing at him with concern.

She didn't say anything, but something passed between them then. Her hand fell down to grasp his. She squeezed. He squeezed back.

The only sounds for the rest of the night was the moans of a small girl, the grunts of an adult man, and the squeaking of the bed.

* * *

**This game, which scarred me when I was younger, was just given an official translation with HD drawings. I am very happy to get to replay it, and was inspired after starting it. Wrote something short, sweet, and to the point.**

**Thanks for reading.**


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